


A Lesson in Violin Mastery

by drg_writings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frustrated Sherlock, John Helps Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Violin, Suggestive, john watson is a distraction, john watson just wants to read the newspaper, playful john watson, there's cute stuff, there's gay stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 17:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30025497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drg_writings/pseuds/drg_writings
Summary: It's a Sunday evening, Sherlock's learning a new song on violin, John just wants to read the newspaper. Sherlock's finally found a song he can't play, and John thinks he's just trying too hard and decides to distract him so the neighbours don't complain.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	A Lesson in Violin Mastery

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle, it's lockdown, I'm bored and I've had booze :)

“Ugh.”

John looked up from his paper at the sound of Sherlock’s frustrated groan, the sound not unlike it was coming from a stuck record, playing on repeat for the last forty-five minutes. Forty-five long minutes on a Sunday bloody evening.

“What is it? You’re making it rather difficult to read the paper when you’re grumbling at every comma I reach.”

Sherlock had been trying to learn a new song on his violin and had reached a couple of bars that were proving particularly difficult to master. It was strange to hear the violin grating, as it was more common to hear sweet melodies drifting out of the window and down the stairs and through the rest of the flat at 221B.

“I’m trying to learn this, John, and my fingers. Aren’t. Working.” Sherlock replied through gritted teeth. His shoulders were stiff and his posture tense, frustration seeping into his muscles, his bones, the very air surrounding him.

John shook his head and returned to his paper, flipping to the next page with a rustle. He was reading an article about a mysterious disappearance somewhere over in Hammersmith, some young lad who worked at the grocery store on the corner. Sherlock had neglected to take it, having passed it off as “not exciting enough,” as if a missing teenager was _too boring **.**_ Then John rolled his eyes, why was that of any surprise to him, he’d lived with the murder-obsessed, ‘I know what you’re thinking before you even think it’ sod for too long for that to be considered surprising.

“You’re concentrating too hard,” John replied absentmindedly, not even bothering to look up from the page. He crossed one leg over the other and got more comfortable in his armchair, it was a Sunday and Sundays are for relaxing, not concentrating.

The air was, once again, filled with the sound of what could only be described as an animal being strangled – or at least what John imagined an animal being strangled would sound like. John folded up his paper with a sigh and stood up.

He crossed the room with a couple of strides and snaked his arms around Sherlock’s waist, John’s chest pressed against his back. He heard, very faintly, Sherlock’s breath hitch.

“I said,” he muttered in the taller man’s ear, “you’re concentrating too hard.” He pressed a feather-light kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck, and felt him shiver. John smiled against his skin and pressed another kiss to his neck, peppering them around to his shoulder. “Concentrate on me instead.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side slightly, and muttered, “but I need to learn this.”

“Then do, focus on me instead. Let your hands do their work,” John replied, then added with a grin, “and let mine do theirs.” He slipped his hands underneath Sherlock’s shirt, feeling his muscles tense and the relax under his touch. Sherlock lifted his violin back underneath his chin and steadied his hand, bow resting on the strings, and began to play.

John grimaced at the squeal that emitted from the instrument but hid it in an open-mouthed kiss against Sherlock’s neck, hands running lines up and down his chest, tracing undetermined patterns across his skin. Sherlock groaned softly and relaxed more into the touch, hands faltering slightly.

“Come on Sherlock, you can do it,” John tutted, then pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Sherlock’s ear, eliciting a gasp. “Show me what those hands can do.” His hands trailed back down Sherlock’s chest, then his stomach, and then fingered the waistband of his trousers teasingly, before bringing them out from under the shirt. Chuckling at a small noise of complaint from the man in front, he brought his hands to the top of Sherlock’s shirt and swiftly undid the first button, then the second, and then the third. Sherlock leaned into the touch, bringing his shoulders up as John slid his shirt off of them, baring smooth, pale shoulder blades that moved in sync as the bow slid across the strings.

The sound coming from it wasn’t quite so jarring anymore, it was becoming softer, smoother, a hint of melody showing through as the muscle memory of Sherlock’s fingers came back into play. John pressed open-mouthed kisses anywhere his lips could reach on that pale back, his shoulders, the back of his neck, his shoulder blades and down the sharp ridge of his spine. One hand returned to rest on Sherlock’s waist, the other tracing the pink scars that littered Sherlock’s back. His lips soon replaced his fingertips though, and his other hand mimicked the other at his waist. The violin was almost singing now, the notes coming out strong, only the slight slip-ups here and there, faltering occasionally whenever John kissed a sensitive spot, particularly on his neck. Sherlock shuddered at each kiss, and John knew Sherlock was waiting for his next move, more and more of his attention being diverted. But soon it would cross that line of thinking too much and become too little, there was only so far, this little game could go before frustration may seep into the room again.

So, he did was any (in)sane man would do and stepped back, all contact with Sherlock ceased. Almost instantly, Sherlock spun round with a frown, “John?”

John shrugged. “You were going to slip up and get annoyed,” he replied, “and I’ve had enough of your complaining today.”

Sherlock growled and placed his violin carefully in its case, the bow next to it. He met John’s eye and took a step towards him.

“Why are you-? I was literally just helping you practice,” John questioned.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in mock-disbelief, “Helping? Is that what you’re calling it?”

John smiled and shrugged again, “You played better, didn’t you?” And before Sherlock could answer, “so, I was helping.”

He turned round to walk back to his chair and return to his reading when he felt a pair of strong arms wrap around his waist, warm breath against his neck, and Sherlock’s urgent groan in his ear.

“Helping or no, practice is going to have to wait.”


End file.
